love in detox

There’s no choice for a real writer. We write not just due to desire, butwe write because we have no other choice. We have something to say no one else could possibly say instead. We spend endless hours debating and theorizing and it doesn’t amount to a damn thing in the end. We are hopeless in our nature. And so we write what truths we know, however far and few. We recount the memories we want to forget but can’t stop reliving. We hope that by saying exactly what we mean, or conveying it just right maybe we could get some semblance of composure, a degree of control or understanding. But we remain wanting. The desire is not satiated. So long as the story endures, so long as it’s brought from memory on ink, it will keep replaying, an internal purgatory marking some continuity of every moment ever lived. Even if not a word was uttered, it would resonate internally. The author cannot escape his own words, they hold a man hostage more than any chain or woven thread. But perhaps by offering our world for inspection, providing the stories that keep replaying in one’s head for others, perhaps it spreads the burden that much thinner, makes that many more individuals carrying its weight. The heaviest burdens of all rarely leave a visible tale, but their story remains forever in the unfortunate bearer; nights of broken dreams and sweaty sleeps, unfinished thoughts and all those unsaid things that can sometimes haunt a person more than the things that were actually said. So many actions; reactions, and yet so few motivations behind them. We’re all trapped in a hell of our own doing, and that’s what makes it all the worse. . But the truth is, it’s the “what if’s” don’t exist, there is only what happened. But the things that happened can keep you awake at night just as much as the things that didn’t, the things you should of foreseen, and avoided and changed. The wondering, the guilt associated therein with the fiction can hurt as much as that of the fact. How do I live knowing I hurt a person I truly loved, and who loved me for nothing other than what I was, even when it drove him crazy? How do I stop seeing his face with his favorite stuffed animal on him without open eyes or life in his body? How do I stop remember how cold he felt, and how dead and strange my lips felt after I kissed his forehead on his makeshift wake bed? How I stop him from haunting my thoughts, tearing my heart every day when I remember and every night when I get some sleep and can maybe forget, until you visit my dreams and I awake to remember that you’re gone all over again?

I loved him. I still do. Normally, that thought would be reassuring. Some things are eternal, constant. Some things you are able to depend on, and time after time it’s a miracle that you’ve possessed something so raw and pure, intense and unfiltered that the passage of time could not belittle it, could not mock it. But instead to rejoice that a part of your soul, while still alive, was able to grab on to something so encompassing, so real and keep it. It does not whither to dust as stone, it will not bow before you but rather you before it. But alas, as all things are, especially those you most desperately seek, as much a blessing and a curse. It rates equivocally to the juxtapose of selling your soul for what you most want. There is success, there is joy, and there is also the sadness that brings. A deep and unmovable sadness, fueled by karma and fate or whatever divinity you see fit to name. To be part of something like that, to love each other the way we did, makes the price worth the cost. To touch on eternity and pure love is too engulf yourself in someone else’s essence. To totally and completely connect on a totally and completely unheard of level, deduced now to only being culpable in this modern day in the guise of factious fairy tales. I would never sell my soul, regardless of the price. But I would choose to love him no matter what. The price that comes with feeling such a marvelous thing is of no consequence. Those, what I fear will one day seem as brief moments compared to the longevity of our life’s without each other, lay far heavier a burden than I would of ever thought possible, than I could have ever thought possible. Perhaps, my soul would be a far less a cost compared to the one I currently pay everyday. But in the end, when you find something like that, something that can move you to tears and make you believe in yourself and someone else, it truly is worth it. Not at all to minimize the anguish that goes along, or too diminish the cost. Just to point a fact: some thing’s are worth dying for, and I’d much rather die for something, than live for nothing.



So obviously, it begins where any love story might, with two people meeting. In a less than fairy tale way, and quite possibly the most preposterous and outlandish convergence possible for two to meet, we met at detox. Nothing says love quite like junkies and alcoholics and self help groups and meetings. Amidst the constant vital checks, worries over getting dope sick, routine dispensing of everything from sleeping pills to antihistamines given for anxiety (don’t ask), 5 people got very, very close. See, most people think their life pails in comparison to the glamorized movie image, but it doesn’t. You must find the romance in any situation. No matter how unconventional, the plot is of little consequence when compared to the crux of the story: two lovers. How could an atmosphere or plot compare to what they share? There just meaningless extras, in a case like this only the two people matter, and the most romantic, and even the most poetically tragic circumstances can appear in numerous different factual situations, without someone having to make them up at all.

I remember every random conversation, every emotion filled glance. Long listless talks ranging from the burdens of addiction, miscommunication with family, secrets, wants, and fears. Things that absolutely mattered and things that absolutely did not. Things that rolled off the tongue, and things that were hard to say, sometimes that were even hard to admit. Some things that still hurt like hell, but sometimes they could hurt in a good way. As in, at least I got to feel that, at least it was real. Even if it is gone, and all that remains is a hole that I’m not sure can ever be filled. I quoted a few lines of the most romantic poem, typically read in 6th grade but usually its beauty was severely misunderstood and underappreciated. He looked it up, and he read from a computer while I recited from memory, and it was a perfect and so sweet a moment, it had to have really it happened. There wasn’t any bullshit. It was what it was; we didn’t need to make it more. It just mattered, there was no debate. Some things just mean something, some things don’t. Very rarely do you say so when such a moment happens, but you feel it. And you remember it. It stands out from the crowd, and on occasion can bring you to your knees.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of ANNABEL LEE;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.



I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love-

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.



And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.



The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me-

Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.



But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we-

Of many far wiser than we-

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.



For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.



We talked about it after, what it meant, how it made us feel. And I did something stupid. I opened up, told him what I really thought. How it seemed every great love story atleast one, if not both, die tragically. Why is there never a love story that’s really happily ever after? Is it only real if it hurts? But how it’d be worth it to feel that way once anyway. We were just kids.

God how could I have said that? How could I not have seen it coming? It was too perfect, impossible circumstances, two people from two very different places by chances meeting at a hospital for an addiction that while alienating them from family and friends, brought the two closer and more informed of the other than most people are after their whole life’s together. Two people, two very different life’s, and a little too similar of a story, a little too dark a happy ending. It would have been so obvious, but it was so unbelievable we didn’t see it coming. It still caught everyone by surprise.

Even when we got out of detox on the same day, and we’re doing intake for outpatient rehab, three days a week, a few hours a day. How we laughed if and wondered why they asked if we had a will? I mean my god, we were only 19 and 22, drugs addict be damned. No one was going to die, we we’re young, and in love, and full of life. It would be too tragic, too Romeo and Juliet to actually happen. We were just kids. Too young, too cute together, too arrogant. How little we knew. We talked about running away as just fantasy. But we talked about moving in together seriously. Of leaving it behind, just worrying about ourselves and each other and leaving the bullshit.

How he was so sure he could do it, how I was so sure he could do it. How afraid I was, but how he made me strong, and made the hardest days bearable. How he could make me laugh, or worse, make me open up. Get close, and trust, and forget everything I tried so hard not to. How I believed everything he said, how deep down I knew he could do it. How he was the only thing holding me together when everything else was spinning. How the only time I felt anything was with him, atleast anything worth feeling.

How I started to slip anyway. And I pulled him down. And when he did slip, we both fell hard. I looked at him as immovable, concrete. He did was he had to, what he needed. He was not to be deterred. He seemed so impossibly strong. And then he was only human. And I both hated him, and loved him even more for that, and that is the only way I could possibly say it. He was strong, but he wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t that good, he was human. But as much as it made me love him, it scared me. I was worse than him, I’d be dead if I hadn’t gotten clean. So how could I make it if he couldn’t. It shook me, a little too deep, and a little too close to home. I yelled at him. I belittled him. And he just took it. He apologized and explained and owned up. I wasn’t mad at him, god I wasn’t even disappointed. I was just worried, and scared for both of us. And it made me worried and scared about how was I supposed to do what the strongest person I know couldn’t?

The whole forbidden thing had been a big part of the allure. Constantly fraternizing was punishable and apparent as a important rule. Secret make out sessions in the small kitchen allotted to us for snacks became an usual occurrence, with each other patient catching us at one point or another. The forbidden aspect was hot, but the being young and in love was hotter. One of the older females took me aside once after catching us in such a manner, and told me she was jealous. That she hadn’t seen a kiss like that in a long time, but it was nice to see it still existed. That one still hurts me, still trips me up randomly. Remembering how it felt for him to kiss me, how passionate it was, how sweet. So much so, it wasn’t just apparent to us, other people could physically see how much we cared. One nurse even joked I should write my book about us, call it love in detox. As if I had a choice to write this story. It wrote itself by happening, it just hasn’t been given interpretation. Too much left unsaid, too much held back out of fear, and pain. I don’t think she really meant it, but the minute I heard it I knew I would. God help me, I had no choice. I don’t know how I’d get published, or if anyone would even read it, but I have too much I need to say. Too many people whose voices will never get heard, whose lives will never be shown. Too many good people lost, to let them just slip away.



I remember his smile the most I think. It was careless usually, and it had a warmth to it. He made you want to smile. He was a gorgeous blond haired, sun bleached too, blue eyed, overly tan and young. He had a fit body, shaped muscles, and a playful agility that truly was exuberant. He was funny in a careless manner, young in all the typical ways but so responsible, so endearing. He handled his business, held down his job. He was strict with himself, and judged himself harder than he should have. But he could still joke, and laugh, and play. He was a person very alive and very playful with a seriousness reserved for when necessary. He was a remarkable person to know, to talk to, to grow with, or to love. Whenever I remember him, I always see him in the sun, golden hair shining, bronze skin inviting. He’s always smiling when I remember him, even with all the guilt I feel over it. I think that means something, I think that says a lot about who he was by the memories he left.